No More Moonlight
by sabibble
Summary: It's been three years since Pitch was imprisoned in his own lair, and Jack has been ordered to check up on the fallen Boogeyman... but when Jack's visit takes an unfortunate turn, will he still have any reason to fear the King of Nightmares? (Blackice; rated M for later chapters - critiques/reviews are welcome!)
1. Chapter 1 - The Guest

A dark figure sitting in an ornate large-backed chair held an ancient-looking book. The room glowed and flickered a warm orange around him, the only sounds coming from a quietly crackling fire and the crisp flip of pages as he read. A nightmare paced silently behind him, agitated but mindful of her master's peace.

Pitch occasionally uttered small sounds of interest as he read, at one point shaking his head and giving a low chuckle as he settled back against his chair, before leaning forward with a sudden gasp, gripping the book tightly and reading with a new fervor.

His quick movement alerted the nightmare; she wandered closer, nickering softly, but going unnoticed by the occupied King until a loud snort roused him from the pages. He turned quickly to her, scowling in annoyance.

"That was the best part, you dolt of a colt. Keep your nose to yourself next time, or I'll - yes of _course_ I've noticed. He's been here for nearly two hours, now..." Pitch looked away from the shadowy mare, raising his voice slightly.

"...And it's not as though I wouldn't know if _Jack Frost_ had entered my lair, with him being as loud and clumsy as he is." The grey-skinned man waited for a response, smiling as he caught the quiet _whoosh_ of air that always accompanied the most bothersome of all Guardians.

"You know, I really hadn't pegged you as the type to snuggle in with a good book." Jack sauntered closer to Pitch's chair, poking at a candlestick with his staff, knocking it over. Sheepishly he withdrew the crook and righted the silvery taper in its holder before moving on, keeping his distance from the increasingly agitated nightmare. She snorted at him in obvious distaste.

"Now, now, my dear... Jack's oafishness is nothing new to us, is it? Intruding where he ought not to, spying as obviously as only such a bitter twit can manage, always bringing in such a _draft_..."

"I'm not _that_ obvious. I'll bet you didn't notice that I've-"

"-Been coming here for five days?" Pitch grinned with amusement, "Do you mean like this morning, when footsteps came from down the hall? Or maybe you mean yesterday, when the doorhandle to my room was so cold it was as though a _snowman_ had tried to break in! But maybe it was the bit right before that, when you-"

"Oh-_kay_," Jack broke in, "I get it, I could stand to be a little quieter-"

"...and you smashed a valuable timepiece the day BEFORE that, hiding it under my couch in plain view."

"YES, yes, _thank_ you, I get it - but I'm not a spy, I'm a Guardian, it's just that - wait, 'in plain view'?" Jack narrowed his icy eyes and scrutinized the ashen man. "Were you _watching_?"

Pitch allowed a hint of smugness to creep into his grin. "Jack, Jack, Jaaack... You can't think I don't see everything that goes on in the shadows? Your recent little escapades have just been too... _adorable_ to miss. But there you were, thinking yourself so clever."

While Jack slumped glumly on his staff, upset at having been found out, grey fingers plucked a black bookmark from nowhere and enclosed it in the leatherbound novel. Pitch sighed, placing the book on the chair as he rose from it and stepped slowly to the glowing hearth. Hands clasped behind his back and facing away, he spoke over his shoulder.

"So, Jack? To what do I owe the honor of your little visits? Come to _check up_ on the Boogeyman, like a good little Guardian? Don't you have other things to do, rather than hanging about in the corridors and breaking my belongings?"

Jack shifted uneasily and looked down.

"Speak UP, boy, or leave while I'll still _let you_."

"Fine! North sent me - he asked me to see what's up, I mean, you haven't left this place for _years_! He thought you'd be planning something by now. So did I, I guess." Jack had been glowering at the taller man's back, but now as he moved closer his expression softened.

"Not that I'm looking for a fight, but why _haven't_ you tried anything? I almost can't stand it!"

At this Pitch turned slightly to meet the boy's eyes in confusion, staring for moment.

"What do you mean, you 'can't stand it'?"

"Aren't you _bored_?" Jack practically yelled, "Down here for months on end, never seeing the sun... All I've seen you do is READ!" Jack poked a stack of books with a strangely incredulous look on his pale face, squinting when a moth fluttered its way out like a puff of dust.

"I swear I'd go nuts in your situation," he twirled his fingers and sent a few frosty moth-like conjurings into the air, watching them swirl around and play in the dusty emptiness.

Distracted by the playful frosts, Jack had no warning before Pitch began roaring with laughter. He jumped back, startled; The once tall, shadowy figure was now bend almost double, struggling for breath and practically tearing up in mirth.

"Bored!" He choked out, his eyes glinting gold with amusement.

"That's what you..?" He trailed off, still chuckling. Finally he stood up straighter, adjusting his cloak and smoothing down his coarse hair. "You mean to tell me you've been spying on me for days, just to see if I was _bored_? Oh, _come_ now, Jack. That's just-"

"Alright! Shut up," Jack's face burned in embarrassment. "What's your deal, then? Biding your time, learning new tricks? Don't tell me you're just peachy with the way things turned out."

Pitch lost his smile immediately, storming a few paces away. Over his shoulder, his blackened stare snapped to Jack's icy blues.

"Of course I'm NOT, you little fool!" He hissed, baring sharp teeth in his sudden anger. "I have _NOTHING_ now! Your horrible friends made sure of _that_, didn't they?" Pitch whirled around, his cloak floating for a moment like raised hackles.

"Of the ones you didn't _freeze_, my nightmares have all turned against me-" The lone mare whinnied, reminding him of his one remaining companion - "Most of them. How am I meant to leave here, if what awaits me out there dogs me so relentlessly? Bored, yes. But better than overtaken by _sand_." He patted the black mare, glancing at Jack and noticing how uncomfortable the pale spirit was upon hearing this. The very air around him seemed to condense and freeze, although Jack was probably unaware he was causing it.

Pitch scoffed mentally. 'Hm. Sulking, I suppose... But he can't say he didn't mean for it to happen, and he knows it.' His thoughts distracted him from the slow movement of his last companion.

The mare left Pitch's side and advanced, tentatively sniffing at Jack but the memory of his power kept her at a distance. The smell of fresh snow he exuded alarmed her, causing her to paw a hoof and huff quietly as she became increasingly agitated by the thought. Pitch noticed his companion's distress, suddenly fearing an outburst from her. He stepped up beside her and stroked her flank in an effort to calm the roiling black mass of sand.

"Jack", The tall spirit said a little too calmly, "You should leave now." He kept his head high in spite of the tension rippling between his hand and the nightmare, hoping Jack would be sensible for once and take notice of the rapidly shifting atmosphere in the room.

Jack looked up, annoyed at the order; he stood up straighter and planted his feet defiantly, clearly not taking the hint. 'But of course not', thought Pitch.

At Jack's movement, Pitch's calming touch lost all effect on the nightmare and she broke loose from him, screaming a beastly cry that gave the effect of a whipping hurricane as she rushed the frost spirit, enveloping him. Faint shocks of blue burst from within the sand, but none quickly enough to quell the swirling mass.

Pitch stood shocked, but knew he could not stop such fury; the fear of his own minion crippled and humiliated him as he waited for the storm to subside.

His guest had not meant any harm; in fact, his presence had made the days significantly less dull, and Pitch knew he could have sent him away whenever he had tired of it. But as the black mists settled, muffling the shrieking winds beneath it, his well-meaning guest lay unconscious and bloody on the stone floor.

Pitch stared. Was the boy dead? No, of course not; not from just that. He ventured closer, shoes crunching over fine black grains that dispersed, sparkling, into the air and between cracks in the stone. So much for his last companion.

He bent over the ice-cold spirit, noticing how his pale skin had been deeply scored and battered. He hesitantly moved to brush his hand over Jack's cheek, hoping to wake him; with no response, he tried jostling the boy's head but still he did not stir. He felt silly doing this. Why not just leave him there and let the boy leave whenever he wakes up?

Pitch moved to stand, removing his hand from fluffy white hair. His hand, cold from the contact of the frost-spirit's skull.

His hand, covered in fresh, wet blood.


	2. Chapter 2 - Memories

_(A/N) I'd like to think that in his past life as a general, Kozmotis would have fought alongside his men and taken responsibility for their wounds when he could. Just a headcanon, I guess!_

* * *

Pitch's mind raced as he stared at his hands. The boy's chest rose and fell haltingly, giving the grey spirit a modicum of relief, but... This was too much blood, surely. Too much to go untreated. He raced from the lair, desperate to find someone, _anyone_ who could help. But _would_ anyone help him? He slowed, frantic and directionless in the moonlight. Maybe, he thought, he'd have to help Jack himself.

"But how?" He whispered to the darkness. "Just a bandage? No, a… for a head wound, you need to-" Pitch's groping mind suddenly touched on a memory, washing him with knowledge of a grand encampment. He caught snippets of himself tall and proud astride a magnificent horse; too quickly the scene became a froth of bodies and metal clashing that he could hardly make sense of.

Somehow in those short moments, he'd made it back to his lair. His hands shook; gently he slid them under the boy, careful not to jar his head. He felt as though he was being puppeteered by his memory, like someone else had invaded his limbs. Thoughts soaked into him constantly, giving no quarter as he hurriedly relearned what he needed.

Images of himself pouring water into a tiny mouth, feeling a little girl's burning forehead and climbing stairs, careful not to spill hot soup were intermixed with the painful groans of men, enduring lead balls lodged in skin and horrifying gashes crossing from shoulder to hip; vivid, though somewhat irrelevant... but in the wave of memories that followed, he knew with certainty that he could save the spirit of Winter.

He whisked the limp form down a chilly corridor, bursting into a dimly-lit room of fine decoration and plump furnishings; their contrast to Jack's pearly white, delicately lithe body made Pitch uneasy somehow. He saw flashes of a young man brought into a tent, broken and bleeding from the skull, and lain down on the only clean blanket in the shelter. Pitch stooped and set Jack upon a huge bed, the ornate quilt darkening under the frost spirit's head.

He saw clouded images of long fingers opening eyelids, and a faint beam from nowhere lighting up the young man's unconscious eyes; Pitch gingerly checked Jack's pupils, finding them dilated. Not a good sign, he knew instinctively. He saw his hands turning the young man's head, checking the wound. He did the same to Jack, wincing at how his hair was stained red. He knew he needed water, a cloth... his gut wrenched as he raced through his shadows, collecting what he needed and wasting not a second more.

Memories and present melded into one. He dabbed at black hair with a damp piece of rag; he cleaned silvery hair with a fine linen cloth.

Hair was clipped and two wounds were stitched shut at once. Two young men were propped up on pillows - one, a bundle of rags; the other, downy and plush.

He gave his fallen soldier a capful of liquor. He poured water past chilled, bluish lips.

He moved on to another patient. He stayed with the first.

* * *

Jack was dreaming.

He had been on a ship, a huge glowing behemoth that seemed to sail above the water, gliding and untouchable. He was completely at ease – and so caught off-guard when a mighty wave toppled the ship, winds swirling and plucking at his body. He called to the gale, but it wouldn't hear his voice; Jack was powerless as it drove biting drops of ice water across his skin and held him still in a crushing, breathtaking vortex. It flung him far from the vessel, out into black water that seemed to extend into forever, unbounded.

He hit the water, descending at such speed as to make him light-headed, and tried in vain to swim to the surface. Something brushed across and tugged at his hair; he moved to slap it away but his arms were sluggish in the briny murk. The unseen creature poked at him, causing a gasp that filled Jack's mouth with water, yet somehow he could still breathe. He gave in to the sucking, gripping darkness… and drowned.

He floated for eons in the undulating, limitless darkness; he'd forgotten how he came to be there, and where he had been before... but he remembered one thing: the dark. He'd seen it before, experienced it, and now he was enveloped in it again, surrounded, suffocating. Thinking about it ceased his placid drifting; it suddenly scared him, sending him into frantic pleas to himself to open his eyes, please, I need to _see _again, something, _anything_. His mind was pulled back up, breaking the surface and landing in a body that seemed to be made of stone. He could not move. He opened his eyes.

Darkness.

_'Well, this sucks', _he thought.

* * *

The groggy Guardian stirred, attempting to lift his impossibly heavy arm, realizing his success too late and smacking himself in the face. He groaned weakly as it awakened the mother of all headaches.

"_Euggh_." He pressed his hand to his face, intrigued by how oddly cold it felt._ 'Come to think of it, my cheek is kinda chilly, too. What's-' _His thoughts were interrupted by a quiet snickering somewhere in the room. Now that he noticed it, he heard various other small noises accompanying it.

"GNUNK?" Jack said intelligently.

The laughter rose for a moment, quickly stifled by its source. Jack cleared his throat this time and tried again.

"Who's there?" He waited, trying to decipher the little clinks and thumps he was hearing when every noise suddenly vanished, replaced moments later by the recognizable _pif_ of a match being lit. A fire blazed to life, searing Jack's eyes and causing him to wince. Eyes closed, Jack heard a quiet shuffling once again. It was a prescence he recognized, and as it advanced the familiarity of it calmed him.

"Good, you're awake," The voice flowed smoothly, "The sooner you're out of here, the better."

_'"Here"?'_ The weary boy wondered, opening his eyes.

A man stood before the bed, between Jack and the fire. He was dark; Jack could hardly make out any detail in the looming silhouette. The figure spoke again, his voice like fresh ink on paper.

"Your friends have not come around here yet, but they will soon, I assure you." The man paused to mutter under his breath. "...Anything bad happens and it's always the _Boogeyman's_ fault. ...Although, I suppose it _is_ my fault this time." He seemed to be thinking, but Jack was much too curious to wait.

""Boogeyman"..?" He tried to sit up a bit. His back ached unpleasantly, but he ignored it and looked expectantly at the featureless face. The man heaved an audible sigh and crossed his arms.

"Yes, Jack. And I'm not willing to have North and his lot barge in here and destroy what little serenity I've managed to scrape together for myself... So _get up_, if you please, and get OUT."

A large stick was dropped in Jack's lap. He picked it up; no, not a stick - a shepherd's crook. The grain twisted finely to his touch, the wood worn and obviously very old. He'd never seen it before, yet... From the moment he'd picked it up, it felt as though something missing had been returned. He felt a relief that he did not understand, but soon a pointed cough had his attention instead.

"Well?" The tall figure gestured to the door. Jack panicked and gripped the staff close to his chest. The man moved to take Jack's arm. "I'll show you the way then, shall I?" He sounded annoyed, but Jack jerked his arm out of his grasp.

"I'll go, but please..." Jack grabbed the dark man's retreating wrist, looking up at the featureless face imploringly.

"What's your _name_?"


	3. Chapter 3 - Footfalls

_A/N: Sorry for the wait, everybody! :) I'm in the last couple weeks of my Animation program. Talk about hectic! Anyways, enjoy chapter three!_

* * *

Pitch was there the moment Jack woke up; it had been days and still the King of Nightmares had hardly ever left the room. His newfound memories were telling him he needed to watch over the boy... but, while helpful, he feared the thoughts that were once a part of him. They gave him a perspective he did not care to see.

During his uneasy vigil he'd neglected the fire, but of course did not require light to see in his favored shadows; as he watched the frost spirit's eyes become clearer and more focused, he wondered if Jack could even see anything in such total darkness. Perhaps a little light was in need after all.

Pitch was just about to move away when Jack's arm suddenly convulsed and smacked its owner in the face. The boogeyman let out an uncontrolled bark of laughter, shushing himself so as not to startle his patient... Although, he was probably wide awake by now. The boy's klutziness made him quite the amusing guest, whether he knew it or not. Pitch continued towards the hearth, set on brightening the room a little.

"GNUNK?" A very loud, _very hilarious_ sound was squeezed from Jack's throat. This time the ashen spirit could not hold it in, and muffled his laugh into his cloak. Had the frost spirit been replaced by a _caveman_? _'Oh, how rich'_, he thought, as his dark fingers placed kindling in a little stack. He wished the Guardians could've seen this.

The Guardians. That's right, he had to get Jack out of here before they came sniffing around... It was not unusual for Frost to disappear for a few days, but for a week or more? Soon he'd have a whole team of yetis ransacking his poor lair.

The thought of that chilled him. What would they find? Oh yes, how about a severely beaten Jack Frost, Guardian of Fun, with a fresh(albeit self-inflicted) bruise on his face? '_The boy probably thinks I sent the nightmare after him, too, curse it all! Somehow I've managed to keep him in tolerable condition, but... perhaps he won't ever visit again_.'

Now why was that thought so upsetting?

"Who's there?" A quiet question from the newly awakened Frost boy spared Pitch from having to answer himself; he returned his attention to the hearth and produced a match from his shadowy sleeves, staring blankly past it. Was he ready to face a Jack who no longer cared? His eyes darkened as he viciously struck the match, tossing it into the tumble of dried sticks. '_Silly_', he thought, watching the fire blaze hungrily. '_No longer? Who said he ever did_?'

Pitch drew closer to Jack's bed. The boy's eyes were squinched closed, unused to the light.

"Good, You're awake." Pitch began, seeing the bedridden spirit jump slightly at the words, and feeling slightly hurt by it. "The sooner you're out of here, the better." At this, Jack slowly opened his eyes, staring into Pitch without seeming to really _see_ him.

"Your friends have not come around here yet, but they will soon, I assure you." Pitch glanced at Jack for signs of relief that the Guardians might come - but found none. The boy actually looked a bit confused. Maybe the pale spirit didn't fully blame him? "...Anything bad happens and it's always the _Boogeyman's_ fault," He tried quietly, "Although, I suppose it _is_ my fault this time..." He wanted to apologize, to explain what had happened before Jack left with the wrong idea.

"Boogeyman?" Jack interrupted his thoughts, squirming on the bed to sit up a little. He was looking up with such an openly innocent expression as to make Pitch's gut twist slightly in endearment... but all too soon he noticed Jack's use of the nickname. His uninvited guest had always called him by his first name, before... He sighed heavily, his spirits dropping.

"Yes, Jack. And I'm not willing to have North and his lot barge in here and destroy what little serenity I've managed to scrape together for myself," Just thinking of the possibility stirred his anger, heating like the flames behind him. He could not help but snap at Jack. "So _get up_, if you please, and get OUT." From near the bed's post he retrieved the frost spirit's dutiful staff. He'd tried to get his hands on the blasted stick all those years ago, but now he could hardly wait to be rid of it.

He tossed it on the boy's legs. Pale hands reached for it tentatively, and Jack seemed to be examining it. _'Probably to see if I've wrecked it somehow!'_ Pitch scoffed mentally. _'How insulting_.' He coughed to break the boy's eyes from the oversized twig, sweeping his arm towards the door.

"Well?" The thought of being ignored and insulted in his own home was intolerable to the ashen man. If Jack wanted nothing to do with him... thinking of it hurt somehow. "I'll show you the way then, shall I?" He sneered. He grabbed at the boy's chilled arm, but Jack shrugged out of his grasp. _'And he's being a brat, to top it all off_', Pitch thought, annoyed. '_I think I preferred him asleep.' _He backed off a little.

A pale hand stirred and swiftly caught Pitch's wrist, stilling him in astonishment. The King of Nightmares was in no mood to patiently heed a 300-year-old pip of a Guardian, but the earnest uncertainty in Jack's eyes sent a chill that rose through him like a foreboding fog. This boy, somehow, did not quite seem like the Jack he knew.

"I'll go, but please…" Pitch was suddenly certain he knew the problem. Oh, Jack, don't say it.

"What's your _name?_"

As if all this hadn't been mentally straining enough.

* * *

Pitch could hardly think at the moment. He placed a hand on Jack's, which still gripped lightly at his sleeve, and after a pause he reluctantly lifted the frost spirit's hand and returned it to the bed. He ignored the boy's confusion for a moment and rested his dark face in his palm, feeling exhausted. This was not going to turn out well once the Guardians knew he'd brain-damaged their latest member.

"Hey." Jack broke the uneasy silence, forcing the dark figure to acknowledge him once more. Pitch sighed.

"My name is Pitch. You know me... or, you _did_. I know _you_, in any case, and you're currently resting in my home." He smoothly sat on the edge of the bed.

"How much have you forgotten, Jack?" He wondered what exactly he should ask an amnesiac. "Do you remember your name?"

"Um." Jack looked at him quizzically. "I assume it's 'Jack'...?"

Pitch scowled at himself. "Yes. Of course. That was silly, I'm sorry."

The pale boy placed a hand on Pitch's arm reassuringly. "That's okay... for some reason, I _like_ silly." He grinned in a foolish sort of way, quickly hiding it in a bout of shyness that Pitch had never seen from the boy before.

Imagine - Jack Frost, once so mischievous a prankster, reduced to a shy, unsure spriteling. A return to innocence, one might say - The thought made Pitch flush. Before Jack could see, he turned away and rose from the bed in a blur that made it seem as though he'd just appeared suddenly near the door. With his back to his guest, he grasped the ancient brassy doorknob and spoke, just loud enough for the boy to hear.

"When you feel up to it, I will show you around. In your current state, you may as well have never been here before." Pitch stepped from the room, closing the door behind him. It was true; if Jack didn't remember anything, it would all be new to him, and he'd have Pitch showing him the way. With this second chance, could he choose to be someone new to the boy as well?

* * *

Shortly after Pitch left, he heard Jack wandering through the halls. He'd seemed excited to learn a little more about the place he'd woken up in, and so here they were, former enemies casually wandering the dusty corridors side by side.

As strange as _that_ felt, the strangest part was something a tad subtler. In fact, the situation didn't all seem to sink in until Pitch realized the oddity in their tour.

From room to room, they walked. Even upon entering the cavernous library, Jack walked. He was curious, of course, and he ran this way and that, attempting to poke every single object in the room. He paused to stare in wonder at the massive domed ceiling, before his unfortunate attention span kicked in and he trotted off to manhandle some other dusty thing. The almost continual sound of footsteps accompanying every stride may not have seemed so strange... if the boy had not been Jack Frost.

The winter spirit Pitch knew was far too keen on leaping about every chance he got. Floating here and there whenever he wished, or being whisked away when the wind answered his call for a longer journey. The spirit of winter belonged in the breeze, Pitch mused, not on the ground. _So why did you come down here, Jack? To a dark pit underground?_

The ashen man stood with his hands clasped behind his back, pondering the peculiarities of the situation as he allowed his guest to explore. The boy seemed completely at ease, as though he wasn't currently gallivanting about in the home and prison of his former enemy. Somehow, this bothered him. Finally he spoke, head tilted slightly.

"Jack, you really don't remember who you are, do you?" _And you don't remember me._

The winter sprite stopped mid-step, turning his head slowly. He did not quite meet Pitch's eyes.

"I, um... No, I don't." He glanced down. "But since you gave me this," He hefted the staff in both hands, "I keep getting this_ feeling_ that... that I was someone important."

Pitch resisted a smile. Instead, he wandered closer to his fair-haired guest.

"That you were, Jack," He said, wishing sadly that he could embrace the smaller spirit. "And you are still."


	4. Chapter 4 - Moonbeams

_A/N: __**/EDIT/ **__PLEASE re-read the second half of Chapter Three! I made some slight changes that affect this chapter a little. Slight, but necessary! I've had some time to think about what I really want to accomplish in this story and I had to get a little retroactive ;)_

_Also, most fanfictions I see are from Jack's POV, which makes a ton of sense seeing as he's the main character in the movie, but for this one I'm trying to keep it more about Pitch. And I do use some things from the books(like the moonbeams) that aren't mentioned in the movie, so I hope nothing is confusing!_

_Anyways, WOW sorry this update took so long, but please enjoy the read!_

* * *

Pitch woke with a start, sitting up in bed as though the sheets repelled him. He shuddered; he'd had his share of nightmares recently, but this dream had been... different. It had been an unnervingly familiar scene, infected by the ancient memories recently returned to him. It had not scared him, but nevertheless it had been from a time he did not wish to revisit, and he found himself wiping an uncomfortable sweat from his brow.

Slowly he rose from the bed, needing fresh air but knowing he would stop short at the lair's exit, as always. The walk comforted him, however, and he closed his eyes to the dark hallway as he made his way. How many times had he woken like this, gasping for a breath that would not feel stale and dusty?

Since he had been so _unfairly_ defeated, he'd rarely ventured aboveground, and even then just long enough to taste a bit of air he _hadn't_ breathed a thousand times before. That, combined with being deprived of much-needed fear, left him drained and listless in the muggy caverns, with not much energy for anything but reading. Oh, the books were enjoyable, to a degree; but utterly _incomparable_ to the thrill of a child's scream as a fresh wave of terror crashed forth, washing over Pitch and refreshing him to his very core.

Pitch slowed to a halt. The thought of that had been so _alluring_ once... but now, inexplicably, he felt pangs of regret. Did he really want this sabbatical to end? Was that what Pitch Black truly wanted - A return to darkness and triumph over scared, helpless little beings?

His eyes widened as he recognized the source of these thoughts. He stormed down the corridor, shaking his head wildly.

"Yes! Yes to all of it," he snarled, throwing a fist to the side in anger. "I never wanted you back in my head. I never wanted to _remember you_."_ 'To remember yourself, you mean?' _The nagging little voice that was his and not his threw in, cheekily.

Pitch ground his jagged teeth as he hurried down the vast hallway. "No. I mean _you_," He reached the exit, falling short of the false barrier a moonbeam created. "Kozmotis."

He gazed up, wondering if tonight the Boogeyman might have a reprieve from his once faithful servants.

* * *

Jack was _freezing_.

Or rather, he knew he _should_ be. He kept rubbing his hands together, feeling no warmth emanating from them but no stiffness of cold either. To all intents and purposes he felt fine, absolutely healthy, but when he curled in on himself and felt nothing from his core, no heat, he instinctively tried to bundle himself up further in the blankets and quilts Pitch had supplied him with. He would have to find out what his host knew in the morning.

Jack peered out from his nest, sad eyes fixated on the door. Who _was_ Pitch, exactly? Jack had thought maybe he was a doctor, but then... something the man had said was strange. And there was something about his manner that told Jack he didn't spend much time in the company of others. Something undeniably creepy.

Jack rolled over, shivering. The image of that black silhouette returned to him, the silvery-golden eyes shining out soft and watchful. The man had been attentive, and familiar... But always Jack felt a tiny warning buzz, a faint but present alarm. Somehow, he felt like he'd come willingly into a lion's den.

He hugged his knees to his upsettingly cold chest. He knew the man, once. Now he knew him in name only.

Should he really feel so safe around him?

* * *

So near to the exit, the moonlight called to Pitch, pulling like a magnet; it gripped his whole being and lifted him, drawing upwards, even though his feet never left the ground. He shook off the feeling with great effort, grimacing from the strain. He would have no peace from the Man in the Moon tonight.

Pitch suddenly wondered - why so insistent now? After decades of silence, MiM was, in his own silent way, clamouring for his attention. Pitch was loathe to go outside, unsure if nightmares would be waiting aboveground. The fear nagged at him, but this beckoning to the surface was no coincidence, he was sure.

It felt clear that Tsar Lunanoff had a hand in awakening his oldest memories... perhaps he could put them to rest again.

The moment Pitch set foot outside, he felt a repellent presence; something sickeningly sweet and syrupy... He shuddered in distaste at the surrounding trees. A Guardian lurked nearby.

"Which one of you is it?" He snarled, rounding on the presence. He slipped through the shadows silently until he came upon it, lashing out and trapping the figure against a tree.

Although trapped by an arm across her throat, the Guardian was calm and still. She looked up at him with the slightest of smiles as she spoke. "Hello, Pitch." She looked past him, at the night sky. "Have you finally come to see MiM?"

Pitch turned from her, almost expecting to see the Tsar himself standing there. He was not there, of course; but what Pitch DID see was that Tooth had led him into a clearing, in plain view of the moonbeams. They tugged at him, asking for attention. He shrugged it off, turning back to glare at the Tooth Fairy.

"What are _you_ doing here? I had expected retaliation, but for just one of you-"

"I'm the only one who knows, Pitch. As a guardian of memories, I could feel it happen." She slid her gaze to the forest floor. "Jack is my dear friend. I couldn't _help_ it!" She seemed to have been pained by the experience.

Pitch couldn't be sure this wasn't a trick, but... She _had_ come alone. Weakened though he was, he would still be able to feel the presence of the others if they were hiding nearby. He removed his arm, letting the fairy float past him into the middle of the clearing.

"I know he used to visit you," she tossed over her shoulder. Pitch tried and failed to hide his surprise; not at her admission, but the sincerity of her smile. He turned further from her, but she continued. "And North wouldn't have let him go if I hadn't helped him lie about his whereabouts." While she did not look happy about deceiving North, her tone assured that it was worth it. "I just know that... Jack needed someone who understood." Wait, North didn't know? But Jack had said...

"I don't _care_ what you know," Pitch insisted brusquely, "I care what Tsar Lunanoff knows."

"Good. He wants to talk to you now," She said to the dark spirit, while staring up at the moon. Pitch strode up beside her, discomfited by the incessant fluttering. He already wished to be back in the lair; her goody-two-shoes aura was almost too much to bear in such close proximity.

He allowed the moonbeams, the Tsar's messengers, to shine on him like a spotlight. Instantly he could hear MiM's voice in his head, relayed to him with no delay through the glowing streams; a feeling like a warm smile accompanied the voice.

_"Have you kept him safe, my friend?"_

Pitch had waited so long to hear _anything_ from MiM, that somehow this friendliness annoyed him to no end. "Why have you interfered, after so long?" He ground out.

_"It was necessary." _Pitch waited to hear more, but nothing came. Was this MiM's way of showing his disappointment? It wasn't fair, he hadn't meant to- ...it was the _nightmare_-

_"No. It was not your fault."_ The ashen spirit looked up with hopeful eyes, expression darkening at the Tsar's next words. _"It was mine."_

Pitch felt like he might shake apart in frustration. MiM was giving infuriatingly clipped answers; stringing him along, baiting him. Still, he had to ask.

"_Why?_ The only soul I've laid eyes on in _three years_, the only one to willingly visit me, and you've taken away every _scrap_ of his memories of me?" He broke off, afraid of how he sounded, afraid that this was true; that this was the real cause of his recent uneasiness.

Hovering beside him, Toothiana could not hear MiM's half of the conversation, but at Pitch's broken question she looked shocked. Had he really cared so much? This did not sound like the Nightmare King she knew. _'Maybe this could work_', she thought.

She could tell MiM had started speaking again when Pitch locked eyes on the moon, listening desperately.

_"The attack was inevitable, you knew that. You knew the nightmares wouldn't be able to bear the presence of a Guardian, not for long." _The words hit Pitch like a hammer, stunning him. He HAD known, but he'd ignored it, thought he could deal with the outburst when it finally came...

_"But when it happened, you were still unprepared, were you not?" _Pitch didn't like how exact MiM's insight was. He wished he would be wrong, just once, and stop forcing what Pitch had tried to deny to himself. He knew where this was going. He knew it had been the right decision, that if he could do it over he'd beg MiM to take the same action as before. He just didn't want to hear it.

_"If I had not given you Kozmotis' memories, the knowledge of healing the General had acquired, you could not have saved Jack."_ Pitch couldn't take this. He writhed in the grip of the moonbeams, the ethereal pillars locking him in place.

_"He would have died at your feet."_ The ashen spirit dropped to his knees, eyes closed tightly. Clutching his chest, he let out a choked sob. He could not stop his actions, but he could tell they were wrong. _'They are not wrong,' _Koz' voice insisted, _'It is only that you are feeling the _right_ way, finally.' _Pitch ignored him, hating that he had so little control. Hating MiM's intentionally relentless prodding. Hating the truth of it all.

"And _Jack_?" He cried up at the sky. "What possible reason can you give for making him forget me?"

MiM was silent for an eternal minute. He was suddenly much less forthcoming; he almost seemed unwilling to answer, but just before Pitch roused himself to ask again, he spoke.

"_My powers are not... omnipotent, my friend. There is only so much I can do so suddenly, from so far away. The energy required to return your memories was too great. I needed a... power source."_

Pitch glared down at the shaking fists in his lap. "So... you mean..."

"_He was the only one nearby."_

That was it. Pitch could no longer sit here and listen, even though it was all true, all necessary, he could not be still. He rose to his feet and tried to force out of the moonbeam's pull. Toothiana tried to placate him and keep him listening.

"Please, Pitch! Stay; we can fix this, if only you'd let Jack outside, if MiM can contact him above ground, then-" Pitch whipped his piercing golden glare at her, shutting her up.

"So I've got the short end of the stick, then? Once again, the Boogeyman must accept his misfortune?" He was not quite free of the gripping light, still needing one more answer from MiM. "So Jack can have his memories back. Good. I'm glad for that. But you have _changed me_, forced these memories on me. They intrude upon who I am, and you make no mention of taking them away again." He waited, staring up at the former Moon Clipper, his question unasked but extremely clear.

"_I was only able to return your memories because, for once in all the centuries since you shed them, you wanted them. I cannot force it, but I _can_ give it. I cannot force them out, either. Kozmotis Pitchiner was a strong man; his memories are determined to stay."_

This was absolutely not what Pitch wanted to hear. This was a death sentence to the self that he knew.

"_I'm sure you can see, though, that Jack desperately wishes for his own memories to return," _MiM tried, but Pitch was finished here. With one last push, he broke free of the moonbeam's grip.

Tooth hovered sadly in the moonlight as she watched him go. "Please, Pitch. Let him come up."

Pitch paused at the edge of the forest. He stood tall, letting one foot dip into the shadows as he spoke calmly. "You've changed me, and you've changed the boy. Accept that... because you will not have him back." With that, he disappeared into the trees.

Minutes passed, and when Tooth was sure Pitch was really gone, she spoke.

"I hope you realize how vulnerable this makes Jack. How can you be sure he won't harm him?"

"_As I said, Pitchiner was a powerful man. He would not allow Pitch to do such a thing."_

Toothiana looked off into the trees. She hoped he was right.


	5. Chapter 5 - Yikes

I'm back from the dead! Sorta working on something else currently as well, so look forward to that ;) For now, enjoy!

* * *

Jack had hardly slept that night. He just had too much to think about and too many nagging worries to relax, but somehow did not feel at all exhausted when morning came. It was a relief to not feel sluggish; he knew he'd have to get some information out of his host today. Pitch had so far been oddly tight-lipped - granted, Jack had only been awake little more than two days, but the way the man evaded questions was both smooth and effective, keeping Jack completely in the dark about his past.

_'Speaking of "in the dark",' _He thought, glancing about the room, _'Is it really morning already?' _He could never really tell what time it was in Pitch's home, as he'd yet to see a single window and had not been shown a way out. He'd assumed on the first day that the dim lighting was for his benefit, so that his eyes could adjust after waking; but now it struck him how permanently dark this place must be. Maybe Pitch had one of those skin conditions where he had to stay out of sunlight.

_'Why else would there be no windows? I mean where are we, underground?'_ He chuckled. Of course not.

Sitting up, he threw off the massive quilts - none of which had kept the chill away - and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He recoiled as his foot brushed something fuzzy on the floor, laughing at himself when he realized it was just a pile of neatly folded clothing. He stooped to pick it up, wondering if it was just the darkness sucking the colours away or if every item was truly grey.

"Wool," he whispered to himself, feeling the pleasantly soft knit. A tunic, he discovered, and a pair of ash-coloured leggings. While at first they seemed thin, they were actually fairly substantial to his touch. Did Pitch know he'd be cold?

He considered the clothes he was wearing - or, what was left of them. The shirt was torn and battered, sporting gaping rips and a dark grittiness that clung to the fabric in places. His trousers were no better. He plucked shyly at the blue cotton, embarrassed at his shabby state... but as he went to pull the mangled old hoodie over his head, he felt a conflicting nostalgia. The clothes were a comfort to his skin, ripped or not. He did not remember ever wearing these clothes, not really; but his skin seemed to insist they had been worn for a very, very long time. He hesitated.

He needed to ask Pitch for answers today; ignoring the gift might make him less willing to answer. The man was a little... grouchy. That wasn't really the right word for it. He'd seemed to mellow out as the days went on, but for a person Jack had only known for a short while, he was sure he'd never meet anyone nearly as bitter(subtle though he was) as the strangely dark man was. For a moment he wondered if he was making a mistake by boldly taking an outfit from the man's home; but the new clothing had been placed there sometime during the night, assuring him he was welcome to them.

Jack slipped the blue hoodie off, setting it gingerly on the bed. He couldn't say why, but he liked the old rag. He broke his gaze away and pulled the woolly tunic over his head. It reached almost to his knees, feeling light yet thick and cozy. As he replaced his buckskins with fur-lined leggings, the thoughtfulness of the warmer clothing threw regret on his doubt of Pitch, but soon enough all his thoughts turned back to his main worry.

He hadn't felt any colder as he'd stripped off the tattered rags, baring himself completely, and now that he was bundled up in layers of rich, tightly knitted fabric, he felt the same. No warmer, no colder, just chilled from the inside out.

Maybe he wasn't healed yet? Had something gone wrong? He still hadn't found out what caused his accident. _'Just one more thing I'll have to ask about,'_ He grumped, futily rubbing his arms for warmth. _'I feel cold as death.'_

His hands froze in position. He felt stupid for thinking it; fear instantly rocked his gut. _'No,'_ He thought, trying not to panic and failing miserably. He could feel his heart rate increase as he tried to quash his paranoia, seeing the whole situation in a surreal light.

Everything seemed to click into place in his panic. Waking in a dark, windowless dwelling of a vastness he was sure he would never fully discover; greeted alone by a dark, secretive being in a black robe who would tell him nothing aside from that he has _amnesia_ - which was a _big freaking help_ by the way - and that he'd had an accident; an accident that apparently left him totally fine barring the fact that he produced zero body heat... Literally. Although not painful, his frigid skin had the telltale tang of zero degrees.

What living thing could survive like that? What sort of being could sap the heat out of a room overnight, as he knew he must have done? The fire should have left some residual warmth, but now the charred logs were just as cold as Jack was.

"Great, now my whole day is ruined," He muttered with a mock seriousness, grinning tremorously. A tiny echo of _ruined, ruined_ faded away ominously. How was it, he wondered, that as terrified as he was, he could find it within himself to try making light of it all?

Regardless of the feeble attempt at calming himself, he was scared; he needed to see another human being, _right now_, to prove himself wrong. What if he couldn't leave this place? Again he replayed his exploration of the dark halls in his mind, trying desperately to remember a window, an opening, a little light from outside, anything... but of course there was nothing. He needed out, _now_.

"The sky... I want to see the sky!" He croaked anxiously through his dry throat. At his words he felt a light breeze gather around his bare feet. He lifted one foot to step away from it, startled; but when he took another step he found that he couldn't make his feet touch the floor again. Both pale feet were now held up by a cushion of air; he gaped at the sight, his vision blurring and his stomach reeling as the floor shrunk away from him. He screamed, the sound forming into the only name he knew.

* * *

Returning to the lair that night, Pitch had found himself unable to sleep, and once again took refuge in the library. He was acutely aware of the silence, and missed the quiet snufflings and nickers that echoed around the domed ceiling when his last faithful nightmare still paced contentedly behind his chair as he read.

He flipped the yellowed pages of the book he'd chosen at random, but was not necessarily paying attention to it; after reading the same paragraph four times, he conceded and closed the book. His distraction was too great; the boy would wake soon. How should he present himself to Jack to gain his favour? And how to tell him of the Guardians? Having him become curious and going off after them wouldn't help matters.

After his tiresome lunar encounter, he'd felt a compulsion to remove all visible connections Jack had with the Guardians, and had gone off to procure some clothing. He'd found something suitable easily enough, but was chased back to the lair by a swarm of nightmares, coming away battered but triumphant. It would be worth it to further wash Jack of his past.

The frost spirit was powerful enough on his own to defeat Pitch when the Guardians could not; he accepted this, but far from getting over it, he planned to keep and use that knowledge to his own ends. If he could manoeuvre it just right, Jack would help him rid the world of MiM's minions... and he'd do it gladly.

_'Not likely, Boogeyman,' _A smug little voice tossed into his pool of thoughts. _'Jack will help you, but only on_ both _our terms.'_ Pitch tried to sweep the unbidden interference away, cursing that in his past life he'd been so... infuriating.

He rose angrily from the chair and winced as the motion strained a large bruise on his back, caused by the nightmare ambush. _'At least I can be glad my creations are effective,'_ He grinned ruefully. Too bad they were no longer on his side. _'Your own fault,'_ the voice piped up again, but whatever was said next was lost in the terrified scream that seemed to be comprised of Pitch's own name.

* * *

Jack's door blew open as though forced by a hurricane, and Pitch swept through in a frenzy. The boy's bed was empty and he did not appear to be in the room, but a fresh cry from above pulled Pitch's attention to the terrified spirit pressed against the vaulted ceiling.

"Pitch! Get me down!" His voice trembled with fright; the contrast between that and the confident spirit that Pitch remembered left him staring for a moment, black hair stirring in the strong wind that had gathered.

_"Pitch!"_ Jack reached a hand towards the ashen man, breaking him from his stillness. At this point, keeping his own powers from Jack would be a useless endeavor, and he rose through the buffeting winds on a swirling tower of shadow and sand.

The pale spirit did not notice, however. His eyes were closed to the blasts of air that almost seemed to be trying to pull Jack up _through_ the ceiling. _'So,' _Pitch decided, '_He clearly isn't purposely causing this'._ He reached the breathless, pale form and pried him free with little difficulty, mildly surprised that the boy immediately clung to his robes and practically hyperventillated into them.

Pitch felt a sudden dizziness as Jack's fear clouded around his mind; he didn't know what to do in this situation, how could he get the boy to just _stop_ being afraid for a moment? Just for a second, and Pitch could wrap his will around the fear and try to lessen it.

_'You don't always have to _control_ it like that, you know...'_ The pounding in his head made the familiar voice sound oddly loud, as though it were coming from someone right beside him. He shook it off, looking back at Jack's shivering form, still unsure of where to go from here... but the body in his arms was no longer Jack, but a stranger. A little girl huddled there, her face tear-streaked and puffy. She clung to his richly embroidered golden sleeves as she cried, soaking them; a burst of digust started in his chest but melted immediately, forgotten, unnecessary. He hugged his daughter, his little Seraphina, tightly to his chest. He moved to wipe away her tears, such terrible things to see on her soft little face... but as his hand rose, she looked shocked. She pushed away from him, struggling and staring at him with such wild, fearful eyes... He couldn't stand to see it, why was she-

The vision broke around him just as a pale fist flew far too closely to his face. His confusion lasted only a moment as Jack twisted in his arms, seeming irrational in his struggle to get free. They were, after all, several meters in the air, and if he were to...

"Ah." Pitch conceded that while _he_ was quite used to it, not everybody would be comfortable seeing, let alone _standing_ atop an indoor twister of black sand. He quickly lowered the both of them to the ground, setting Jack down and wishing he'd realized his mistake before the frost spirit had landed that one flailing kick to his knee. He grimaced. His bruises from the night before were healing, but this tussle wasn't helping it go any faster.

He brushed the wrinkles out of his robe in an attempt to compose himself and allow a moment to think on what he should do next; which well-crafted speech could he give the boy to calm him and -_ 'That's not going to work. What did I just say?'_

He felt that prickling fear spike once again and looked up to see Jack plastered against the far wall, staring at him with bugged-out eyes. Pitch took a step towards him but immediately the boy came to his senses, and after a quick up-and-down look at Pitch, prompty lost them again.

"WHAT THE _**FUCK**_!"

_'Try controlling _that_.' _Pitch was speechless. He'd never heard the Frost boy utter profanities like that before. _'Well? Try.' _He sneered at the inner voice, shaking his head as though to dislodge an annoying fly as he took another step, thin whisps of sand trailing from his robe.

"THE FUCK ARE _**YOU**_?" The boy turned to the door and grasped the handle, forgetting, in his fear, how to use it. He rattled it up and down. He rattled it side to side. He stared at it, gaping. Obviously, it didn't open.

The incredulous, whiny groan that came from Jack at that moment struck something in Pitch, and it bubbled up before he could stop it. Jack turned to him slowly, eyes still wide but his fear had plateaued.

"Are you... _laughing_ at me?"

Pitch was well aware that his brand of laughter probably sounded like an evil cackle at Jack's expense, - _'Realized that all on your own, did you?'_, the voice tossed in - so he quickly gave his least bone-chilling smile and explained himself.

"I'm sorry. That was simply... the most _ludicrously_ hopeless escape I've ever seen. You're so panicked, but I assure you, you shouldn't be." He tried to look at Jack kindly, but in the boy's current state of mind it probably looked like a predatory stare.

For the first time since rushing into the room, Pitch took notice of Jack's state of dress. He was wearing the clothes he'd brought during the night, and they looked good on him. Jack, wearing Pitch's colours... he stared hungrily. By now it was not just the boy's perception; Pitch was giving him the full-on Predatory Stare. Jack gulped and eyed the door.

_'Shut it down,' _Kozmotis' voice advised, _'before he panics again.'_

Pitch shook his head. Of course.

This turn of events called for a full explanation to Jack; he couldn't wait, like he'd wanted to, to reveal his power. It would have been easier to paint the Guardians in the light he wanted if this hadn't happened, but he must make do, and he must do it before Jack could form any new suspicions about him.

Speaking of which...

He prodded at Jack's fears, tasting them mentally, wondering what exactly the boy thought of him now. Ah, he'd felt this fear before, it was nothing new to him - it was a fear he'd always quite enjoyed, as it made him feel more impressive, more powerful somehow.

"You think I'm the Grim Reaper. Death, himself." He chuckled, golden eyes glinting at Jack. "In fact, you're afraid that _you're_ already dead. Well, Jack-" The voice, now exasperated, cut him off.

_'Wow, you _really _don't know what you're doing, do you? I mean, yikes.'_

"You can read _minds?_" Jack practically shrieked.

Whoops.

* * *

Is Kozmotis totally OOC, or is he just having more fun as a float of memories and a disembodied voice? The world may never know.  
Please review :) Thanks y'all


	6. Chapter 6 - Smooth

It had taken some coaxing on Pitch's part and a bit of, "Fine, I'll wait on the other side of the room with my back turned while you figure out the door," and, "No, I _won't_ be reading your mind," before Jack would consent to leaving his room and accompanying Pitch to the library, a place he knew would be the least threatening.

Pitch had sent most of his shadows away, but Jack still goggled at him like he had three heads. He'd made Pitch walk ahead of him all the way to the library, and when they got there, he anounced that he wouldn't set a single _foot_ inside that room until it was "well-lit" and Pitch was sitting down, "In _that_ chair, over there. By the fireplace. So you can't hide anything."

Pitch stamped around the room, lighting torches, and making a show of staggering under the weight of his own world-weary "Siiiiggghhhh" as he looked over his drooping shoulders at Jack. He did this after every torch he lit. The third time, he caught the beginnings of a grin on Jack's face before it was quickly wiped away.

Pitch smiled inwardly as he lit the last torch, thinking that he'd managed to calm the boy somewhat, then turned to catch Jack's impatient motioning for him to sit in the chair by the fireplace. The _chair_ was actually a footstool, and had no back, sides, or arms, and was quite short. Pitch felt awkward as he settled on it. His knees were sticking up. He smoothed out his robes and straightened up.

_'You look foolish, you know,'_ Kozmotis said slowly, as though Pitch wasn't aware. 'Yes, I'm sure I do," He thought back at him, annoyance clinging to every word.

_'No, I meant...' _Kozmotis paused, unsure of how to phrase his next comment inoffensively. _'... Foolish is what Jack _needs_ right now. I just wasn't sure you could put up with it. Pride, and all.'_

Pitch thought about this while Jack cautiously entered the room and planted himself in Pitch's favourite chair. He was loathe to agree with the uninvited voice, but Jack _did_ seem more at ease now, if only slightly.

He wasn't even sure where those antics had _come_ from, as the type of fun he was used to usually ended in terrified screams. He smiled fondly to himself, a dreamy look crossing over his features. Jack stared.

_'And would THAT have worked? You are absolute _shit_ with kids, you know that? So, you're welcome.'_

'Yes, well, Jack isn't a kid.' He snapped to the voice.

Wait.

'What do you _mean_, "You're welcome"? If that was your doing...'

_'Yes, that was me. I merely fed you the idea, and obviously you felt it was right, because you did it without question.'_

'That isn't my point. I didn't want you back; I don't enjoy acting unlike myself. Acting so, so..'

_'Human?'_

Pitch could _hear_ the smirk emanating from the word.

'I would _appreciate_ it if you wouldn't interfere any more', he hissed with finality.

His emphasis on "appreciate" held a certain sense of "If you were corporeal I would strangle you", but Kozmotis seemed to be humming happily.

"Um,"Jack started, bringing Pitch's attention back to him. The whole internal conversation had taken only half a minute or so, but staring into space for even _that_ long was bound to look strange.

"Ah. Yes." He cleared his throat. "Jack, it's clear I need to tell you more about yourself. And me. You see, I... didn't want to _scare_ you."

Jack looked glum. He rubbed his hands together.

"You don't have to tell me. It's true, isn't it? What you said before, when you... knew what I was thinking." Jack shivered a little at the thought.

"I said you knew me before the accident, did I not? Who meets Death before their time? Nobody. No, Jack; you've known me for years, and I've known you for substantially longer. I'd seen you here and there, but never quite had the opportunity to meet you in person."

The frost spirit eyed him warily.

"What, like... a stalker?"

_'Yes', _Kozmotis piped in cheerily.

"No!" Pitch said quickly, "Not like that... it was more like-" He paused. What _was_ it like? He'd followed the spirit around, always from the shadows, never quite able to present himself, though he desperately wanted to. "More like..."

"...Someone who wanted a friend." He finished, resisting the sudden urge to clap a hand over his traitorous mouth. He hadn't meant to say that, it wasn't even... That wasn't how-

Kozmotis was still humming. 'I'm going to figure out how to kill you', said Pitch silently, 'and it will be painful'. _'Oh, just _try_ it, shadowman.'_

A cute noise from Jack brought his attention outward again.

"You should've just said 'Hi', then!" Jack said, beaming. Then his eyes screwed up in thought. "I mean, I don't remember you, not really, but I get this feeling..." His face shifted, as if he'd just remembered what had happened mere minutes ago in his room. He looked serious.

"Tell me who you are, then." He leaned forward, listening intently.

* * *

Pitch told him everything - with minor alterations, of course; Kozmotis complained the whole time of being left out completely, except for Pitch's passing mention of having been human, once.

He told of how he'd fallen to Earth, leaving out the _inconsequential_ bit about how he used to hurl whole planets into stars for fun.

He told of how he'd been imprisoned for millennia, underground, forgetting, perhaps, to say it was because he'd tried to turn MiM, as a baby, into his fearling prince, and had murdered his parents and their fleet in the process.

He may have left out the part about feeding on the horrors of life, many of which he himself _caused_, but he did make sure to elaborate on his many, many lonely years wandering the planet with nobody to understand or even talk to him.

_'Sob, sob',_ Kozmotis threw in periodically.

But Jack listened with wide eyes that now and then turned watery, sometimes seeming offended on Pitch's behalf. He looked unsure about Pitch insisting it had been 'millennia', drawing his eyes over the grey man with a clear "You don't look _that_ old" skepticism. Even so, his attention hung on every word and Pitch was delighted, though kept his face a mask of sorrow as he recounted his life up to the present.

He did not mention MiM; he didn't want Jack to know about him, at least not yet. It was possible he'd become excited at the thought of someone who lived on the moon, and try to contact him; and that was exactly what MiM wanted. He wouldn't allow it.

Instead, he went straight to telling Jack about the Guardians, as though they were beings who had simply invaded Earth one day, bullied Pitch around, turned his friends, the nightmares, against him, and threw him in the lair.

Jack started to look angry as the story went on. He interrupted.

"So, that first day when I woke up, and you said I had to leave because North might come barging in - he's a Guardian, then? Does he just pick on you _all_ the time?" Jack scowled. "He sounds like a real donk. Are they all like that?"

"Oh yes," Pitch said quickly, before Kozmotis could force his mouth to say 'no'. Koz huffed in frustration.

"They can't stand the thought of me having visitors. They would have come to chase you out." The truth was, they couldn't stand the thought of Jack being alone in the Nightmare King's lair, but this was Pitch's story, and a little embellishment was fine, in his opinion.

Jack shifted happily in the chair at the prospect of hearing a little about himself. "So why did I come visit you? Were we friends?" He thought for a second. "No, wait, first just tell me about _me._ All of it. What do you know about me?"

Pitch looked uncomfortable. He _felt_ uncomfortable. He had never been dread to give someone bad news before, so this was a new thing; as usual, Kozmotis piped up to let him know it's what _normal people_ feel. He shrugged it off.

"Jack, you aren't going to _like_ it, I think..." He looked up at the boy for permission to continue, and Jack gave it immediately, nodding his head and leaning in. Pitch sighed.

"Remember earlier, when I said I'd known you for 'considerably longer' than a few years?"

Jack grinned. "Oh, don't tell me. I'm a thousand years old," He joked.

Pitch looked at him seriously. "No, not as much as that." And Jack gave him a sideways nod that said 'See? There you go', before Pitch continued.

"Only three-hundred." Jack froze in the midst of a second snarky nod.

"I'm sorry, what? Months?" He smiled woodenly.

"Years. You've lived for approximately three-hundred years."

"Oh, _approximately_. That's fine then", he squeaked, face looking like it was about to crack. He began to laugh nervously in defense. Pitch sighed again and decided to wait it out. He'd seen denial like this many times before.

"Three-hundred?" Jack continued, a note of panic alongside his forced joviality. "Yet I look like a baby seal. Have you _seen_ me? I'm adorable." He touched his face frantically, and looked down at his hands. They started to shake. He giggled... and fainted.

_'Smooth'_, Kozmotis said grimly. _'Imagine if you'd told him he'd DIED before living that long.'_

* * *

Pitch sat staring for a minute or two, bored, and hoping Jack would come around soon.

He wanted his chair back.

Finally he lifted himself off the tiny stool and went to him, noting how Jack's features had not been so relaxed since he'd been concussed. Without thinking, he'd reached a hand toward the smooth face and tapped a cheek gently, letting his dark finger rest against pale, freezing skin.

_'Maybe one day he'll no longer faint from fear in your presence'_.

"Yes", Pitch breathed, hardly a whisper. "I hope."

Kozmotis echoed him in satisfied silence.

He scooped up the boy and took him over to an alcove cut into the wall, and placed him in it. The nook was stuffed with blankets and several furs, and he tucked one over Jack's cold form.

Pitch stood watching over him. The talk had not gone easily, trying to keep his two voices separate and distinct. It was difficult to keep the conversation exactly as he'd wanted it when Kozmotis kept interrupting and derailing his finely-crafted speech. He hadn't paid enough attention to Jack's mounting fear, and had let slip a very distressing fact most indelicately.

_'It was like watching a sinking ship,' _Kozmotis added unhelpfully, _'there was nothing you could do to save it.'_ The dark man stormed to his chair and sat angrily, clutching the arms. "As though the fault did not lie with you...!" But he let it drop.

Pitch gritted his teeth. The frost spirit would not want to hear the rest of his story, now.


	7. Chapter 7 - Capacity

**A/N: **I changed something; did you notice? 8D;;

* * *

The air was still.

Clouds swirled slowly overhead, warm golden light diffusing through their soft thickness.

Jack sat in the middle of an endless lake, resting cross-legged on the surface as though it were made of glass. He could see fish swimming below; he could _feel_ them as they passed, each one pulling him almost magnetically. He longed to join them, to swim in the crisp, clear water, and to feel the delightful chill on his skin.

He raised a chalk-white hand and dipped his fingertips into the yielding water. It felt cold, like he'd expected; but too cold, the _wrong_ cold. He tried to pull his fingers from the water but they were stuck there as though in ice.

Night approached in a matter of minutes. The overcast sky turned dark and the edges closed in, like a cavernous star-studded ceiling above him.

He whipped his head around, looking for anything or anyone to help him. The second time he looked behind, he saw a forest had suddenly appeared there. It was dark; all he could make out were the silhouettes of trees. It was gloomy, but natural, and he could tell that it belonged.

A dark shape advanced from the forest. A huge wolf lumbered towards him, stepping out onto the surface of the water. Ripples spread towards Jack, breaking gently against him.

Jack realized it had been snowing, silent and soft, everywhere except the patch he himself occupied; as soon as became aware of it, the snow started falling too thickly to see the wolf clearly. Silvery-gold eyes peered at him through the softly dropping curtain, waiting.

After a moment's hesitation, Jack touched his free hand to the powdery wall, stopping the huge flakes midair. He brushed a handful away, revealing the wolf's face. He beckoned it into his snow-free patch, and it entered.

It circled him, looking sadly at his hand frozen in place. It came to a stop behind him, laying down and allowing Jack to lean against its warm fur. Jack sighed. It was comfortable, and he felt he could sleep happily here, but the mystery of what lay beyond the snowy curtains would not let him.

"Can you help me leave here?" He asked. The wolf lifted its head, looking worried.

"It's ok," Jack reassured it, though slightly disappointed; "You can stay in your forest." It rose, coming to stand at his side. Jack felt his hand come free, and he examined the frosty residue that spread from his fingertips to his palm. His eyes focused behind his hand, seeing that the snow was falling sparsely enough to see through; but before he could make anything out, a sound came from beside him.

"No", said the wolf. "We will go together." And, with the wolf pressed warmly against Jack's side, they slipped headfirst into the lake.

* * *

Jack gasped, opening his eyes to dim light and sitting up so quickly he whanged his head on the stone above him. He groaned, looking around; he was in some sort of niche cut into the library wall, cushioned on thick furs and surrounded by more blankets of the same.

The night before came rushing back, jarring him. He felt sick and afraid, feeling the truth he'd learned looming over him, larger than him, larger than anything he knew. He clutched the fur in his hands, feeling its warmth through his cold fingers. Yes, he knew it was true; he knew as soon as it was said, that it was _right_.

That was what scared him.

He was old._ Older_ than old. And although he'd been worried before at his loss of memory, this went beyond _worried_. This was a brain-punching sort of 'How could I forget _three-hundred years?!'_ that left him sitting in an incredulous fog... for a few minutes, at least. He shook it off.

He supposed he'd always been able to recover quickly.

'Besides', he thought, 'being in shock is boring. I want to test out my Old Dude legs!'

He hopped lightly from the alcove, taking the first few steps gingerly. He wasn't sure where Pitch was at the moment, but he didn't want him to come running because he knew his guest was up and about. He plodded around as quietly as he could manage before deciding that was lame, and opted instead to do whatever he pleased.

He began climbing the nearest bookshelf, noting the lack of dust on the thick wooden planks set expertly into the stone wall. He felt as though he weighed naught at all and lifted himself with ease until he was near the ceiling. He found a gap with no books and sat for a moment, surveying the dark room from above.

It was only in this new vantage that he spotted Pitch. He was sleeping in the large chair, head lolled slightly to one side, lean arms resting in his lap. He looked so peaceful, Jack thought... but a little part of him knew that this particular man was never truly at peace.

Lately Jack knew how that felt, as that tiny bit of him kept acting like it knew things he didn't, like it held all the answers he needed but wasn't telling. He felt that agitating sensation strongly when next he found himself wondering if Pitch was dreaming, and what his dreams were like and if they were good, and that little part kept urging No, no, _no_, he doesn't, he _can't_, they aren't, _how could they be_.

He felt such pity in that moment. Such a terrible, horrible wash of sadness and solidarity. He pitied himself, though he didn't know why, and he pitied Pitch, feeling that he did.

He almost wanted to _laugh_ at how sad he felt for that short time. It was absurd. Everything about this was absurd. Not for the first time since waking with a relatively fresh head wound, he relied on his capacity to shunt annoying feelings to the back of his mind. He was not one to brood.

Looking at Pitch from so high up, Jack had the sudden giddy urge to _jump_ from the shelves, feeling like he might just drift down and land near him like a feather on the wind. It was a strange thought; he recalled the day before, though, and wondered if maybe it was not so curious after all.

He gazed down at the sleeping man. He said he was old, too; much older than Jack.

He also said they'd known each other. Jack tightened his grip on the shelf. Maybe together, they could piece together his memories? He moved to climb down, pausing at the slick of frost that had appeared under his palm. It wasn't _that_ cold in here, was it?

No matter. He descended from the wall, intent on hearing a little more from his host.

* * *

Pitch jolted. Although recently he'd felt more tired than usual and had _attempted_ it, he didn't often sleep, and for a moment wondered why the fire had suddenly gone out. He rubbed at his sore neck and yawned, thinking absently about relighting the half-burnt logs in the hearth, and turned to direct a small smile to Jack's current sleeping nook.

He blinked. Jack was gone. Well, no matter, he probably just went to sleep in a proper room. He'd come back when he wanted to.

In the meantime, Pitch rose to light the fire. He thrust a new log into the midst of the ash along with a handful of kindle, carefully placing every piece. Small tasks such as this kept him busy during the long days and nights spent in his lair, and he always gave it his full attention. Soon he had constructed it to his liking, and pulled a match from his cuff.

_'Where do you keep getting those?'_

Pitch twirled it in his long fingers and struck it quickly against the stone hearth, tossing it under the sticks. He leaned back, still crouching, watching the flames spread.

"It's a shadow thing."

"What is?" Pitch spun around, rising to his feet in the same instant. Jack was sitting cross-legged on the back of Pitch's chair, watching him.

"Hh-! When..!" Pitch sputtered. He was used to being the one watching from the shadows, not the other way around. It felt... creepy.

Kozmotis _'hmm'd'_ thoughtfully.

Jack wiggled his toes, grinning shyly. "Sorry! I thought it would be funny. You took a while to wake up, though..." He stretched his legs out with a tiny 'crick!' noise and began clambering down off the tall-backed chair.

Pitch was taken aback by this, and it obviously showed on his face because Jack immediately asked, "What's up?"

The grey spirit didn't answer right away, but he closed his mouth when he realized it was open slightly. He frowned, thinking.

"Afraid you talked in your sleep or something?" Jack's grin widened.

"It simply took me by surprise that you didn't... float." Pitch wondered if it was wise to say this so bluntly, but decided if he treated the claim as normally as possible, Jack might be more inclined to believe it. _'Doesn't hurt to try... unless he kicks you again,'_ Kozmotis joked.

"What? Float?" Jack looked quickly at his feet, most likely remembering the fiasco from the day before. He gave Pitch an oddly pensive look, crossing his arms and waiting for him to continue. This was unexpected; Pitch had foreseen a little more trepidation on Jack's part, but he wasn't going to question it. This whole thing had been difficult enough already.

"You've always liked to, ah, _perch_ in high places, Jack, but I've never seen you _climb_ there." Pitch folded his arms, grasping his chin with long fingers. "Maybe this is where we shall start."

Jack stared serenely, seeming to accept this small factoid about himself easily.

_'Perhaps he's already discovered that,'_ Mused Kozmotis, as Pitch's keen eyes caught the unmistakable glint of frost, several meters up on the bookshelves.

* * *

**A/N:** Ooh, what's this? Jack's coming to his senses a little bit? It's about _time_ ;)


End file.
